Viral Transmission

"This is just to test your blood pressure," said Art reassuringly, noticing that the sweating was becoming excessive. As soon as the first slight pressure was applied to the bulb, the man moved. Without warning he screamed in terror and Art was on the floor... The Onion Field, location 459


Joseph Wambaugh's depiction of gay panic is quite different in text than in the screen play adaptation which led to the film, so different even the dowager isn't sold by what is going on in the company Ian keeps on his way to becoming a martyr in the name of law enforcement. In the movie, Ted Danson's Ian is a hastily contrived pastiche, because Wambaugh's underlying concern, as transmuted by the director, is the reverberating impact of justice as a convoluted process. In the book itself, whatever Ellroy's introductory praises, all of Wambaugh's character development seems like a hatchet job, as if he is desperate to imitate Capote and swallows his tongue in the process. This makes Onion Field a fascinating period piece, despite itself, and Wambaugh's hatchet has a nascent driving energy which intimates a command to skip the movie and read the true crime saga in the troubled years of Nixonion paranoia; but the screen writers for the film at least made homosexuality and vice recognizable. Wambaugh, by contrast, seems quite incidentally to border on science fiction.

By 1973 the dowager was growing up in the world, forcibly incarcerated just like Art's patient, and people didn't flip out over a blood pressure cuff due to sexual impulses. They might cry over girls on the ward engaging in mock lesbian teasing, to establish pecking order, as primate groups do, but this curious piece of exposition in the first chapter teeters on the edge of dramaturgic abstract art, as if Michael Rooker's serial killer was introduced on stage by Becket.

If the dowager was inconsiderate to Nick Denton in tweeting her repugnance for Michael Hall's brave and brief exchange with his fictional minority law enforcement officer, it was deliberate, but not quite due to prudent shock. Denton looks ambiguous, the way most radical Britons out of the radical left Labour wing do, and just as most radical Anglo Saxons do, male or female, they reach out to minority short order cooks to make political statements, perhaps covertly, through their sexual liaisons, and Denton does the same thing with his partner, besmirching marriage as a sacrament, defiant and in your face: I'm gay and love a black American. So what? The Western middle class has found a method of appropriating gay difference: elevating homosexual monogamy, even while medical epidemiologists' like Fauci hover in the background. Oh, they don't judge, but they are they failsafes policing sexual adventurism which by normal social standards are still considered criminal, like the use of handcuffs for restraint, for instance. And in a gay cross race relationship, there is always a bit of a hustle going on, cashing in on white privilege. I know it because I've been there, and indeed, could roll out on Market Street in my haggard skirt attire and pick up three black men willing to sleep with me, a broken welfare spastic, but a white broken welfare spastic, nothing more than a reprehensible power play, damning me into abomination territory. I'd like to remind the Holy Father, in this vein, that whatever his Marxist sentiments due to his Argentine background, he is the last Prince on the face of the earth whose statements have world renown impact, and one of religion's remaining functions is to name apostasy for what it is. You are not just a victim's advocate Francis, you carry thousands of years of Roman authority in that burden on your shoulders, and the growing material power of people like Thiel and Denton needs to be countermanded. The battle between them is almost akin to the sins to be plucked out of the Divine Comedy. Denton revels in sexual exposure because he wants to be accepted as a non-deviation, while Thiel blows 10 million on civil tort because he isn't quite gay enough to flout it in a parade, while broken withered crones can't even get a paralegal to do a case assessment on her life long toxic environments and medical model brutality which improved nothing on her original issues wrought by brain damage. Being able to blatantly buy the law simply because an individual created a flicker of a wrestling personality are episodes through which class resentment could trigger serious social unrest.

Sudden Slavic Disappearance

The DeVito Douglas partnership is for the most part so orchestrated that it conventionalizes itself, but both DeVito and the ancient crones which comprise the make up of the Southern European Aunts Network know what they're talking about when the masquerade of gas feels like a nose dive in a healthy systolic rate. A moment's peace, deflation, and then all the sudden savage invective decibels against minority building managers gently recoils into its daily knot in the stomach.

What is it exactly that spastic wants in terms of her housing and isn't getting? Every large storied building has tenant issues, private or under housing authority contract. Spastic wants a ground level writing studio where she can be left alone as much as humanely possible, ten thousand leagues away from Presbyterian hypocrisy, which doesn't mean Catholic Social Services is off the hook. Blunt and charming nuns ask me if I have my nursing home facility lined up, which is why I am always screaming with Michael C. Hall's hysteria, even if I'm not the gay mortician, in the pit of my stomach.

Perhaps faux fighting President Clinton is a serenade toward an epitaph. His wife is twenty years plus my senior on blood thinning medication with a deer in the headlights astonished look at the country's anger. Would she really be a competent commander in chief? Mozzarella salad in wait, in the genius of Italian gastronomic comfort.

To my Muscovites: I miss being able to make fun of Russian cultural inadequacy. Do come back soon.

Powder Charge Hypocrisy Clearance

Hard as it is for me to believe, I've lived without a cable television subscription since 1997, although I've managed to cling to my ISP, perhaps not with the most effective diligence. My lack of focus on cable series is mostly about time management as opposed to poverty. I have 600 texts to read, trying to move without a job and an evil colon, loss of body mass and other plagues, but the other issue is I am not really interested in Orange Is The New Black or House of Cards. They are fine series, but my spirit has been imprisoned since I did the wrong thing by slamming my damn skull against North Philadelphia. I do not need to watch white chicks who actually broke the law join the fuck up world of minority loose ends trying to hold it together simply because I was obstinate. I'm still interested in Six Feet Under, as long as Michael Hall and Mathew St Patrick do not become overly graphic, and may purchase the seasons in chunks, but other than a little research into Orphan Black, I do not know what the big league subscription dependent channels have that I might wish to mine. Walking Dead is available and I'm not religious about it. It took me a little time to find Bounce, and I booted ION off my favorites to replace it with the black channel.

Spastic bigot struggles with futility to rend her cheap knit and beat her breast: I'm only there for the material, and there is plenty to be had, like this weird bit of grisly delusion. Legacy has issues as a dramatic vehicle, even if Thomas Ikimi is using *blackness* to serve up deep seated conspiracy theories. Is it indirectly about Obama's and white governance? Is Eamonn believable as a senator waiting in the wings to finally dispense with the democratic process? As a supporting actor he is as solid as a Zulu, and British.  Just turning my stones. Arch smile.

Sterilized Needles

"You are asking people to admit to illegal activity." a New Mobility regular named Barry, I think.


And that is what a good investigative journalist does, educate. There is an undercurrent in American culture, a belief that in the popular lexicon, we suffer from arrested development, emotionally anchored in high school, even as we perform the most complex surgeries, litigate the most arcane points of law. It is what keeps a network like ABC afloat, and in a simple sense, made Six Feet Under worthy of macabre acclaim. Do we have to mature, sober up, in the face of mortal demise? Accept the paternalism of genetically wiser tribal elders?

Disability culture is not quite as static as Goodall's discovery of chimp tool use, but it comes pretty close. Consumer model attendant care is a highly inefficient system that leads to regressive and sometimes abusive role reversal, and all the activists can do, for more than over 50 years of my lifespan, is say community integration is better, even while matriculation erosion basically amounts to institutional parity. I am suffering just as much with Presby as my landlord as I did as an abandoned child in Home of the Merciful Savior. Charles never addresses this, I suppose due to his disavowal of identity issues. John  weighs back in now and again, but he is one of the very few disabled public figures who is as successfully matriculated as a media professional with paralysis can be without overstating the obvious. But it is when individuals like my former supervisor, who causes so much unnecessary psychic and economic harm when she has the cognitive ability not to engage in such behavior, and individuals like me, who most often get left out.

Hockenberry, like thousands of disabled veterans, was once able-bodied. Those of us born with chronic impairments are the most expendable untouchables.

Egg Whites, Third Sunrise

I only ate one meal yesterday, an inadvertent accident of sorts. I tried the Danish pancakes with a dash of the usual maple and a generous fork scrape of cocoa almond spread, and after dealing with Tim's failing short term memory, I collapsed, but still not sleeping well.

I am making my omelet now, bland, but with cheddar, in my Marathon Grill bowl, to keep it round, and it will fill me but most likely give me phlegm fever. I am used to that, and honestly, I am partial to unfertilized chicken eggs, and would readily eat any other edible poultry eggs. The difference this morning is I did not make a sandwich, but dressed two slices of sourdough on the side. I splattered on the kindle and polished the screen with the splatter, but ate, no reading. Still hungry, as can reasonably be expected, but the edge is off of being famished, and think I can recline, but non!

Alas! Back cushion!

The aeros have either not come in or went to the package room Thursday, and no one notified me. Remember the shot of Michael C Hall screaming in the funeral parlor? Ah ha, she says, grinning. Life is not only irrational, but inexorably silly, and I do not want to go into remission (actually relapse, but an interesting error) to tobacco at my old levels, which is going to happen unless I find another type of aid, and after I balance my accounts, I am going to research the electric brands. I highlighted the danger of the dependency of David Foster Wallace, but cannot solve my own. Any one have a preference in terms of atomizers? Does anyone ever answer my questions posed in these posts? So many stubborn tanka bloggers, eh?

The weekend will be ecumenical, of course, unless I stream, and I may finally be in the mood to do so, but Mel's Passion is running later this evening, and spastic wants to see . Mel is, understandably, everyone's favorite pissing pony, and the late Hitchens went after him over his ultra conservative Catholicism, but he is also quite an interesting director, and I am not afraid of his spiritual quest. I do not believe in a god, or a divine, but science cannot answer certain questions about self-recognition, and aspiration. Sam Harris'es materialistic rap of Mother Teresa as clearly depressed, this is not enough for me, because I've felt the earth rock beneath the vinyl sling on which I sit, not that I can call it a vocation of faith.

I might have saved myself some personal anguish not to have trusted in the intensity of what I felt when I was young, nor putting all my eggs into Linda's basket as I hit major trouble in my mid-30's (a young middle age, enjoy while you have it), but that intensity may not always be in the realm of the pathology of the overwrought. The drama queen might kick in if I ever saw Jerry again, of course, throwing myself out of the wheelchair, he'd ask, "What are you doing? You alright?" While I'd land on my knees, tears welling up, my voice crying, "I failed," as if I held it there, my greatest sin in a display case.

But I wouldn't want to cause him another cardiac incident.